Palamades Publishing: Get your fix of poetry, ghosts, and soon…giant robots. That’s right: Giant robots motha duckas!

Good lord.  I’m at the gym waiting to use the squat rack.  Two Crossfit bros—that’s right, just TWO—have taken up the rack, the cables, all the benches, and the gym’s entire selection of kettlebells so they can engage in some kind of weird, injury-inducing circuit that causes them to grunt, scream, and fling their disgusting sweat all over the place (an experience you know that they’ll pleasure themselves to later while still wearing their backwards-facing baseball caps).  I’m fiddling with my phone, playing Kingdom Rush, waiting for these roided out douche-machines to finish with the rack, when suddenly this uber-hot soccer mom begins running her fingers through my hair.  I look up at her, asking a wordless question with my raised eyebrows.  She says, “You’re Kent Wayne, right?  The author?”  I give her a weird look and reply, “How do you know that?  I haven’t shown anyone my face.”  She laughs self-consciously.  “I’m an expert at recognizing bodies and…bulges.”  I start chatting this pretty lady up, when suddenly one of the Crossfit bros stops in the middle of the circuit, lathered in roid-n’-beer Bro-sweat, points at me and yells, “HEY!  THAT’S MY MOM!”  Oh shnapskies!  Both the bros start running at me and I tear-ass it out of there, and sprint into the men’s locker room.  Hopefully they’ll look somewhere else or—SH’BANG!  The door to the men’s room swings open and the bros charge in.  They lock eyes with me, and veins pop out across their bodies.  “RAAAAAHHHH!!”  They start walking toward me, chests bowed out, arms all swole and vascular like some kind of cross between penis and anaconda.  Holy Christ I’m a dead man.  Only one option left.  I throw my head back and yell, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!”  Magic flash.  A sack of rice appears overhead, hanging down from the ceiling on a rope.  What the hell???  What good is a sack of—and then a magnificent recurve bow appears in my hands, a single arrow nocked and ready.  The voice of Bard, he who slew Smaug, whispers into my ear:  “Aim true, young Man Child.”  And in a satori-like flash, colors become brighter, things go slow-mo, and I see every speck of dust, every sliver of reflected light off all surfaces, whether they be dull or shiny.  With the pinpoint concentration of a diving falcon, I raise my bow, loose my arrow, and the heavy-grain broadhead wisps through the air.  It slices open the bottom of the rice-sack.  Grains shower outward, enveloping the two bros in a rustling deluge of white.  They immediately begin screaming:  ‘AAAHH!!! I’VE BEEN TOUCHED BY CARBS!!!”  They roll on the floor, writhing in agony.  As I run past them and make my escape, I run past the hot mom and she drums a beat out on my booty.  PattapattapattapattaSLAP!  Yeah BUDDY!

Palamedes Publishing.  Check out their poetry here:  Machu Picchu Me  They are assisting me with the process of getting Echo Volumes 1 & 2 in paperback.  Right now I’m in the middle of reworking Echo 1, trying to get all my noob mistakes out.  If you refrain from buying it due to my amateurish writing style, a product of my first ventures into fiction, then I totally understand, and I’ll announce when I re-upload an updated version.  If you buy it anyways, then many thanks!  Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle  Vol. 3 on Kindle here:  Vol. 3 on Kindle


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